


The Lion's Flame

by ShannaraIsles



Series: Shannara's Avvar 'Verse [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Anthology, Avvar AU, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Prompt Fic, Sex, Smut, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-02 14:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13319955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannaraIsles/pseuds/ShannaraIsles
Summary: A collection of prompts based around the Kindled Avvar 'Verse, focusing on Avvar!Cullen and my own OC, Rory Allen.Tags will be added. Rating will definitely not go down.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from [@solverne](https://solverne.tumblr.com/) on tumblr - "What's wrong? What did you see?" Sensory prompt for Rory and Cullen! :)

“What’s wrong? What did you see?”

The sun rising over the mountains, bursting forth with bright rays to bless the forests below. Deep shadows reaching forth to cling to the land, a last bastion of banished night soon to flee before the Lady’s blazing eye. A rising flock, stark against the brightening sky, taking wing in search of sustenance. The lazy stretch of the holdbeast as she left her lair, pausing to call her cobs to her side before making her idling way down to the river. The valley laid out before him, hearth and hope and home, theirs once more by the grace of the gods.

Nothing was wrong. But what did he _see?_

Red hair lit by sunlight, a burning halo of soft flame left loose to stir in the dawning breeze. Pale skin still rosy from sleep, speckled with the sun kisses he had traced so many times with hands and lips. Gray eyes tilted to him, storms hidden in their depths, storms he had weathered and brought to peace; trusting, curious, tender in the dawn’s light. Slender form, small but strong, curving generously beneath the cling of unbleached wool; the hint of rousing to his possessive gaze in the press of dusky rose at the crowning peak of her breasts. And below those peaks, the smooth swell of the future they had made together, shifting just barely with the careless motion of the unborn child within.

“Cullen?”

A slow grin drew his lips apart as he moved to join her, hands rising to gather her close to his chest, to stroke her cheek as the child in her womb pushed against him. _His_ child _. Their_ child _.  
_

“Nothing is wrong, Rory,” he murmured against the bright flame of her hair, closing his eyes against the brilliance of the dawn. Even in the darkness of his mind … “All I see is _you_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from [@agentkatie](https://agentkatie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr - a jealous kiss, with Rory and Cullen please! (Avvar Cullen if you're feeling it :D)

“Dogs? Really?”

“Really! They made much better bedfellows than some of my illustrious friends here do, too.”

Rory burst out laughing, the sound of her amusement carrying far across the open space of Frosthold, underpinned by the lower tone of laughter from her companion, who was carrying her basket of washing for her. Alistair was another surprise from the Avvar - he hadn’t been born a barbarian, but rather had been accepted by them following a series of unfortunate events surrounding his childhood and a ridiculous Orlesian woman he refused to name. He was still an Avvar, though, albeit a rather more fun Avvar to be around. Ria liked him, too, though she seemed to enjoy making him blush far more than was entirely kind. Rory had taken to Alistair easily, glad to make a friend who wasn’t simply being friendly just to please Cullen.

Who was watching them from across the hold, his brows drawn together in a scowl that had the augur beside him chuckling. Dorian didn’t even need to look. He could hear the laughter himself - it didn’t take magic to guess why Cullen Lionsbane was scowling like thunder. The augur didn’t stop laughing when the hunter abruptly left his side, turning to watch as Cullen stalked across the hold floor.

“… seriously saying that he smells _worse_ than a dog?” Rory was asking, paused at the door to the longhouse she now called home. 

Alistair grinned, heaving the basket of wet linen higher onto his hip. “From behind, yes,” he told her cheerfully. “From the front on bad days, too.”

“What constitutes a bad day?” she laughed, her head tilting up as Cullen reached them. Her smile softened, warm in a way only he could draw from her. “Cullen, Alistair was jus - _mmmph!”_

Alistair blinked as his fellow hunter planted a kiss on Rory that would make anyone’s toes curl. And she _melted_ into her lover, everyone around them forgotten as Cullen poured heat and want and powerful possession into that kiss. As the Lionsbane’s hand descended to cup her bottom, Alistair raised his eyes skyward, tilting his head away innocently.

“I’ll just, uh …” He cleared his throat, setting the basket of wet washing down by the door. “Right. Have fun.”

No answer. And none to be had for a while, it seemed. That wasn’t just a kiss. It wasn’t just a claim. That was marking territory by means more attractive than pissing. And whatever else Rory might think of it later, when she was boneless and sated in the arms of her lover, finally aware of just _why_ he’d done that in the first place, she was definitely _Cullen’s_ mate, whether she knew it or not.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from [@izzyb900](https://izzyb900.tumblr.com/) on tumblr - Needing to kiss to hide from bad guys … the Avvar version.

The shriek echoed around the small valley. Cullen pulled up sharply, cursing as Rory’s hand dragged from his, turning as she sprawled face-first onto the wet ground. Her foot had tangled in the roots of a tree as he ran them along, twisted at a painful angle even now. He crouched beside her, laying a finger against her lips to try and still her gasping whimpers of pain.

“Shhh,” he warned, his voice low beneath the splatter of heavy rain all around them as he reached to carefully release her foot from the natural trap he had failed to see as they ran. “They will have heard you.”

“M’sorry,” she whispered, her voice caught tight with quiet agony. 

That wasn’t just a sprain; she could _feel_ the broken bones scraping against one another as he straightened her ankle. It took everything she had not to shriek again as he pulled her up onto her feet, her nails digging hard into the exposed gold of his taut chest as she fought not to faint at the wave of nauseating pain. She heard him curse softly again, felt the world move as he swept her up off her feet and took off running once more. There were voices in the rain - distant, but distinct - and terror warred with pain as she clung to her lover, hating how helpless she was, even without an injury. This game of Redhold was deadly enough, setting supposed guests to run the gauntlet of unfamiliar woods in search of the boundary between their lands, then releasing the clan’s hunters to chase them down. She had no doubt Cullen could evade them easily alone, but he refused to leave her. She was a liability, and he would not see it.

She must have passed out, for the next time she was aware of her surroundings, she was alone, it was dark, and her ankle was splinted and throbbing. She groped her way to sitting up, belatedly noting that though she could _hear_ the rain, she couldn’t feel it. This place, wherever it was, had the feeling of being underground - a cave, perhaps, or some abandoned burrow Cullen had found to hide her in. But where was he? Had he finally taken her advice and abandoned her to seek his own safety? _Would_ he do that? She knew he wouldn’t, deep in her heart _hoped_ he wouldn’t, despite the practical sense of such a plan. She could hear voices, the crash of feet through sodden undergrowth, and panic gripped her. Groping for a handhold, she heaved herself up onto her feet, muffling her cry of pain behind one clenched fist as she shook with terror and agony, whimpering as she limped with extraordinary stubbornness along the rough hewn, slimy wall.

The voices stopped, began again, seemingly closer, and suddenly strong arms were about her waist, taking her weight, familiar lips stifling her cry, silencing the sound of pain falling from her mouth as she clung to her Avvar lover in the darkness. She breathed him in, letting relief pour through her body, dulling the pain in her ankle as Cullen stole her breath, stilling her voice, breathing her in with tender care. His lips were soft on hers, firm in their certainty that she _had_ to be silent, neither one of them moving but for the gentle press of lip to lip as those voices slowly began to fade into the distance of the pouring rain. 

Gently, he drew back, one wet hand stroking the damp hair from her burning cheek. “Shhh, _mitt hjarta_ ,” he whispered to her. “I will always come back for you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from [@kagetsukai](https://kagetsukai.tumblr.com/) on tumblr - And once more with feeling! 4. A Drunken Kiss for Rory/Avvar!Cullen :D

It really was amazing how much better she was feeling about wearing more Avvar-y clothes after a few pulls from the special jug making the rounds of the celebration. Well, _clothes_ was pushing the definition as she knew it. With the peace between the clans formalized, Rosalie had talked her into dressing as one of them for the celebration - to keep her from standing out, she’d said. Mia had been quick to find hide pants and a leather vest for their brother-bride, far more form-fitting than anything Rory had worn before. Even with the fur wrapped at her hips to bulk her out, and the paint on her bared skin, she’d felt ridiculous, achingly aware of not just Cullen’s eyes on her as they joined the throng. But whatever was in that jug was _special_ indeed; it had certainly taken her inhibitions away to a place of safety, that was for sure. 

Which explained why she was dancing in the firelight, arms raised above her head in the gentle grip of one of Cullen’s hands, his other palm kneading at her rear as they ground together in a heady parody of the love-making they shared almost every night in private. She was barely even aware of others around them, her unfocused gaze pinned to the kissable scar that marked his lip, uncaring that he had her restrained in full view of anyone who cared to look. The sense of release was wild in the air around them, as the clansmen and -women of Frosthold took the opportunity to thank their gods in the earthiest way they knew how. 

“I like you, y’know?” she drawled, forcing her head back a little too far to comfortably meet the intoxicating gaze that had stripped her so many times over this evening. “You’re so … so … Like a …” She fumbled for the word in Avvar, her ability with this second language of hers severely damaged by the alcohol thrumming through her body. “Y’know, like one of me, but no boobs. With a … a thing on the front. Here.”

She tipped her hips forward, purring in delight when said _thing_ was so easy to discern through four layers of fur and hide. Cullen growled down at her, the sound sending shockwaves through her body as she wriggled closer to the beat of the drum. 

“Are you drunk?” he asked, that gorgeous scar pulling taut as he smirked at her owlish blink in answer. 

“I may have indulged a bit,” she agreed, her own lips parted in a wide smile as he chuckled at the open acknowledgement of her state. “I feel sort of naked, but it’s _fine_ , because you have hands and they’re warm and - _man._ That’s what you are, you’re a man.”

She lurched forward, planting a sloppy kiss on his chin. “ _My_ man.”

“ _My_ woman,” he murmured back to her, that hand at her bottom gripping tighter as he released his grip above her head. 

Her hands fell to his shoulders, skimming over bare painted flesh, to curl into his hair, scratching her nails over his scalp with wicked intent. She knew he enjoyed that, but she’d never done it in full view of their clan before. _Their_ clan, her mind repeated. But she’d only been here half a year, and -

The thoughts stopped as his mouth covered hers, swallowing whatever nonsense she’d been spouting to fill what she thought was silence, devouring her unrestrained answer as the tilt of his hips reminded her all over again of how _manly_ he was. Liquid fire poured through her veins, igniting the spark he’d been nurturing with just his eyes all night.

“M’going to climb you like a, like an oak,” she informed him, mumbling against his lips. “Like a, like a big man thing that has pointy bits I can ride on.”

She felt him snort with laughter against her lips, momentarily insulted before she forgot what she’d been saying in the sudden shift of the world. Cullen’s big hands had hooked beneath her thighs, wrapping her legs about his hips as he turned to take her out of the circle of firelight. Some things were for his eyes only, and a Rory this free with her words and her affections was definitely one of them. 

“What if I wish to mark you as mine?” he purred against her throat, lifting his chin to nip at the delicate lobe of her ear. 

“Oooh …” She sighed happily, closing her eyes as the world swam about her. “ _Yes_ … untie all the knots and, and, and never ever _ever_ touch anyone else …”

He paused, gently leaning her back against the cool wood of a nearby wall, his strong hand soft in stroking the flame of her hair from her face. “ _All_ the knots, Rory?”

She nodded, letting her head fall back as her eyes grew heavy. “I know lots of songs,” she intimated to him, though her voice was loud enough that anyone passing would hear her, even over the sound of the celebration they had left behind. “ _Loooong_ songs about Andy-andr … her.”

Cullen stared into her unfocused eyes, a gentle smile playing at his lips. “You thinking of staying, _mitt hjarta?”_

Rory forced her eyes open, her expression almost outraged that he needed to even ask. “‘Course I am!” she declared. “Stayin’ with my _man_ , and his hands, and his thingy, and family and all. Why wouldn’ I? Got to stay with the man you love, don’t you?”

Again, he stared at her for a long moment, suddenly pressed so close she could hardly breathe, his mouth on hers, his hands hungry to touch everything she offered, filling her hazy mind with nothing less than the feel and taste and smell of him, clouding all other thoughts that might have been trying to make themselves known. When, at last, he drew back, breathless, it was simply to rest his forehead on her own, staring into eyes she was having great difficulty keeping open. 

“You’re not going to remember any of this in the morning, are you?”

She blinked, tilting her head to him curiously. “R’member what?”

Cullen laughed, shaking his head, pulling her from her lean and up into his arms again. “Never mind, my flame,” he assured her, kissing the curve of her shoulder as she hung against him like a child fit for bed. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready. And sober.”


	5. Chapter 5

The Avvar had many secrets.

Secrets of their gods, secrets of their culture, secrets hidden from the so-called civilized peoples descended from their mutual ancestors. The secrets of the mountain the Frost clan called home were theirs to hold for time immemorial, coveted by those lowlanders who had heard some hint of them, guarded by the painted warriors and their clan, shared only with those they trusted as their own. 

And here, at the heart of the mountain that loomed over the Ash Basin, was one of those secrets, finally shared with the flame-haired mate of the Lionsbane.

Mia had grown weary of Rory’s quiet resentment at last, the redhead’s lengthy recovery from the injury sustained in her flight from the deceptive offering of peace in Redhold having kept her from taking an active role in the clan as bones knitted and flesh healed. Cullen’s absence in this last month had made that quiet unhappiness all the harder to bear, for all of them worried over their men and women gone to take revenge on the Red clan for their treachery. After consultation with Dorian, the augur, Mia had at last allowed Rory to walk once again, to build up the strength in her ankle with the aid of a cane, yet that air of silent terror still lingered over the head of her brother’s mate. Not even the cheerful cheekiness of Ria could lessen Rory’s tension and upset, though she tried her best not to dull her friend’s happiness. 

So the decision had been taken to invite her into one of the secrets of the mountain, for it was clear for all to see that their redheaded lowlander was _definitely_ theirs now. Civilization could not give her what the Frost clan could, what _Cullen_ gave her. Whether she admitted it now, or in the years to come, _this_ was the moment when she became Avvar. Because _this_ was a secret they had not shared with the outside world since taking residence on this mountain.

At first glance, it was just a small cutaway in the heart of the mountain, open to the sky yet untouched by the deep winter snows, overgrown with grasses and thickets of warm green. Yet hidden within that rambling screen of wood and leaf was the soft rise of steam from a pool that seemed as flat as glass. Warmed by the proximity of some heat source within the rock itself, the clan’s tales whispered of the magical healing properties of the water, bestowed only upon those who could call themselves of the Frost. With those stories in mind, Mia had ushered Rory into the heart of the mountain with a promise to return for her in two hours, more than time enough for her brother-wife to absorb some of that magical healing heat and perhaps soothe the ache in her heart. 

Rory sank into the steaming water, wincing just a little at the sting of the heat against her chilled skin, and finally, _blessedly_ , released a heavy sigh. That one sound carried with it all the worry, fear, pain; all the aching tension she could not quite escape from. Worry for their friends, for every man and woman that had gone on this awful campaign of war and death against the Redhold clan; for Cullen, who had taken the wounding of his captive bride in their flight from the treacherous enemy so much to heart that he had become distant in his anger in those last days before he had left. Fear that he would lose his sense in battle, that he would not come back to her, that she would have to make her own way in the world without the reassurance of his presence in her life; fear that he would never know that the ache in her heart was for him alone. And pain, though it was more physical than anything; the healing ache in her ankle as tendons and muscles repaired themselves after weeks of inactivity, absorbing the heat in the water with grateful throbbing. 

Sweet Andraste, she missed him so _much_. Not just his physical presence, not just his touch, his kisses, the way he could melt her with barely more than a glance. She missed his smile, the warm way he would acknowledge her even when his attention was elsewhere, the wrap of his arm about her waist as they slept; the gentle corrections of her speech in his tongue, the teasing laughter in his voice when he convinced her to let go of duty for just a little while. She missed talking to him, listening to him, watching him with his family. She missed _him_ , everything that made him who he was. And it petrified her that she might well spend the rest of her life missing him, if this raid did not go as planned. 

_Just tell him you love him, dummy. It’s not that hard._

She sighed again, shaking her head at her own thoughts. Love was … love was complicated. Love was something other people had - something Ria enjoyed in abundance with Rylen, for example. Rory knew for a fact that her best friend would _never_ have allowed herself to get pregnant if she wasn’t pretty sure her antagonistic game of loving and arguing with her dark-haired Avvar was the real thing. 

And that was another ache in her heart. Ria was pregnant. So Ria would be staying here, no matter what happened. Ria had Rylen, a home, a child on the way. Ria was looked after. But when the year was up, would Rory have the same? Cullen had been _so_ distant before he’d left, barely able to raise a smile or kiss her without a scowl. He’d become a stranger filled with silent anger, bursting with the need for retribution against the other clan. He’d forgotten her, it seemed, in that desire for blood. Perhaps getting hurt had simply reminded him that she was not a suitable bride for a legend-marked warrior of the Avvar. She was just a lowlander, a fling to enjoy for a year and toss back to the lands she came from. After all, she had not been shy in teaching her herb-lore and potion-making to the augur and others, in sharing what she knew of medicine and healing with anyone who asked. She’d given away the only thing that made her useful to them. By the end of the year, she would have nothing left to share, and with no child in her womb, no reason for him to keep her. Perhaps it would be best if she simply packed up what little she owned and left of her own accord. Cullen didn’t deserve to have to ask her to leave. 

So that was that, then. The decision was made. Once her ankle was strong enough to bear the weight of the journey, she would say her goodbyes. And spend the rest of her life wishing for the love that seemed to have slipped through her fingers.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW!
> 
> And the poem quoted is _Come Lord and Lift_ by T. Merrill, ever so slightly adjusted to fit with the setting.

* * *

 

 

The Red Thane was dead.

The triumph of victory swam through the Frost clan, igniting joy, relief, glory over the vanquished foe. There would be no new Thane of the Redhold clan, for there was no Redhold left. Those that had survived - those that had turned on their Thane and his sycophants - had license to stay or to go; to be absorbed into the Frost clan and align themselves with the victors, or to leave and begin again somewhere far away. The Ash Basin and all those who called it home, Avvar and lowlander alike, breathed easily for the first time in months.

Yet victory had not come without a price. The dead were gathered together, laid out on their raised litters as laments filled the air, heartfelt voices calling to the Lady of the Skies to raise the souls of those that had fallen as blood kin stripped the flesh from the bones and broke them to release those souls from the prison of their forms.

Rory stood alone among the mourning Avvar, her own eyes wet for the loss endured by those she loved in this strange gathering of peoples. At her side, young Aidan clung to her hand, trying to be brave as he watched his father’s body prepared for the Lady’s servants to devour. Branson had been the last to fall to the Red Thane’s sword, an evil trick that had brought the rage of blood to the fore of Cullen’s mind, clouding him from pain and injury until at last the Red Thane lay dead at his hand. Vengeance had been taken swiftly ... but that was little comfort to a child left without mother or father, too young yet to take up a sword, too old not to feel the loss keenly. Among the mourners working at the litters, Cullen, Rosalie, and Mia cared for the mortal remains of their brother, none of them showing dry eyes, each one aching for their loss.

Around Rory, the mourning voices faltered reverentially as the crows began to gather above them - a clear sign that the Lady of the Skies looked kindly on their dead. And beside her, Aidan lost his battle to be calm and clear-eyed, turning his face against her stomach as he sobbed for his loss. She wrapped her arms about him, listening to the silence, and words rose from the depths of her memory. They weren’t Avvar words, nor were they Andrastian; a lamenting poem she and Ria had spoken over the body of their mentor when he had passed that seemed to fit everything.

_Come Lady, and lift the fallen bird abandoned on the ground; The soul bereft and longing so to have the lost be found. The heart that cries - let it but hear its sweet love answering; Or out of ether, one faint note of living comfort bring._

One by one, the kin of those that had left them stepped down from the raised litters, returning to their living family with bloodied hands and sorrowing hearts. Rosalie stumbled as she walked, fighting to keep her own tears at bay. Mia wrapped an arm about her shoulders, the sisters gathering their bereaved nephew into their embrace as they passed, to bear him away to home and comfort before the fierce wake began, with heart-pounding music and grief expressed in memories of the lives lived before this dark moment of loss.

Slowly, everyone trailed away, leaving the Lady’s avatars to devour the flesh left behind them and raise the souls to Her in the heavens. And there was Cullen, hands red with the blood of his own brother clenching and relaxing over and over as he stared, unseeing, at the mass of black feathers. That distance he had cultivated between them before leaving to fight was still there, somehow wider, harder to cross, now that grief had enveloped his heart and mind. But she couldn’t leave him. It wasn’t _her_ heart that needed comfort in this moment. Her lion was in pain, and though it tore her inside to think he might not ever thank her for it, she would not let that pain fester until it poisoned his soul.

Trying not to look at the gory scavengers going about their business, Rory ventured closer to where Cullen stood, raising a tentative hand to touch his back. He flinched, shaking away from her with a violent jerk of his head.

“No.”

Distress flared in her chest, choking her throat, but she was as stubborn as he was. Probably more so.

“I’m not leaving you.”

Cullen growled under his breath, glowering over his shoulder at her. “You should.”

She met his dark gaze head on, aware that her own upset was clear on her face. But she refused to be cowed by this man. She had seen him at his fiercest, his strongest, his gentlest. If she could weather all those sides to him, she could weather this, too ... at least until he came back to himself.

“If you want me gone, say it to my face.”

The golden head turned sharply away, fists clenching at his sides as a shudder rippled over his shoulders, down his spine. Another growl, low and menacing, rumbled from his chest to paint the air already filled with the corvid screechings from the litters overhead. Rory felt her own fists clench, anger rising in her heart at his refusal to even acknowledge her properly. How was he supposed to face his loss if he couldn’t even face the woman he’d supposedly chosen for his own months before?

“Say it,” she demanded from between clenched teeth. “Tell me to go.”

He didn’t even look back at her, turning swiftly on his heel to march away from the ruined remains of his brother, his friends lost in battle; away from the hold and those who awaited him. Away from her. And Rory felt her temper snap inside her, letting out a growl of her own as she stamped after him, skirt gripped in one tight fist to keep out of her way with each step.

_“Say it!”_ she snarled at the broad back he presented to her, ducking the branch he let snap back in his wake, ignoring the scratch of twigs against her cheek, the warmth of blossoming blood on her skin. “Or did the lion leave his courage in Redhold? Did he come home a coward unable to face a pitiful lowlander?”

She barreled into his back, his pace suddenly halted by her harsh words. Stumbling back, she stiffened as he rounded on her, all the darkness of his anger and grief at the forefront of his expression, blackening the face she loved so much with an ugliness she had never thought she would see from him.

"You call me that, _lowlander?"_ he snarled back at her. "You stand there with your hands that have never held a weapon, your spirit that has never taken a life, and you call me coward? You know nothing of what it is to kill the man that has killed your own, to walk the dark paths of blood rage in silence and shame, to see your own kin cut down before you and know that his death should have been your own. Look to your own cowardice before calling on mine, _healer."_

Hurt blossomed in her heart all over again at the return of her harshness from his lips, feeling her face pale as she physically flinched back from words she had never thought to hear from him. But she didn't run, and he wasn't running anymore, either. She glared up at him as he glared back, gazes locked in fire and fury and pain.

"No, I don't know what it is to take the life the way you do," she heard herself say, her voice quieter, but no less fierce than before. "But I _have_ ended life. Death is your enemy, the hunter that stalks you whenever you raise a weapon. But death is my friend, the one who stands at my back and is there to take the pain away when I can do _nothing_. You think I don't feel guilt for those deaths? Shame, at my failures? I am not _less_ than you for never having wielded a weapon in anger, and you are _not_ less than me for knowing that rage. Branson's death is not _your_ fault, Cullen. He was a warrior, just as you are. He chose his death, he went to it as a friend. Don't you dare take that choice away from him, just because he isn't here to argue it."

The aggression in his eyes flickered as she spoke, a moment of admiration that she had not turned to run from his anger but stood her ground passing by swiftly as the guilt of his grief rose to the fore.

"He took a blow that was meant for me," he began, but she did not let him continue.

" _He_ made that choice," she said again. "He _chose_. You don't bear any of the blame for his decision, Cullen. You ended the man that ended him; you'll care for his son like he was your own. You have kin who need you to _feel_ this, and weather it, and come out of it whole, because if you don't ... what did Bran die for?"

"For _nothing!"_ His voice was a roar of anguished guilt, his fist slamming hard into the wide trunk of the tree they stood beneath, shaking snow from the branches overhead. "He died for me, and for what? To abandon his son to a man who knows nothing of raising children ... a man who cannot even speak his heart when it matters the most?"

The sudden explosion of sound and violence shocked her heart into a stutter, a fearful response to a man she had never been afraid of since the moment they'd met on the riverbank. Fear that spurred her back into anger with an assumption she'd been holding close for weeks.

"Then let me make it easy for you," she snapped, hating the blurring of her vision that betrayed tears not far behind. "You don't have to love me, you don't have to _keep_ me. I love you, but you can send me away and I won't blame you for it!"

The silence that followed choked her, stifling anything more she might have said in the sheer force of shock that radiated from her grieving barbarian as he stared at her. Disbelief cloaked his features, those whiskey-warm eyes she loved so well clouded with incredulous horror as the tears she had hoped to keep in check began to trickle over her cheeks, betraying the weeks of quiet misery she had endured in the certainty that he no longer wanted her by his side. When he spoke, his voice was low, rough with emotion she was too broken to understand.

"You think I don't love you?"

Strong hands seized her arms, dragging her close against a firm body that shuddered in the grip of some maelstrom she could barely touch without burning herself. Those intoxicating eyes, aflame with anger and grief and desire, seared her gaze for brief moments before his mouth was on hers, ravenous, ravishing, the blazing heat of powerful tenderness fogging her mind, clouding her thoughts, chasing every hint of her discomfort and distress far from her own touch as she melted into him, surrendering with everything she had to a kiss she had not dared hope to have again. Cullen growled against her lips, the taste of his breath filling her mouth as those hands that wore the blood of his brother's mortal form gathered her still closer, falling to knead at the smooth curve of her backside with the possession she had grown so accustomed to over the months since he had captured her. Confusion blossomed somewhere in the back of her mind - was this grief that fueled him, or desire? Did he want her, or did he want her to stop talking - but that, too, was chased away as his mouth tore from her own, hungry lips trailing over the smooth line of her neck, nudging fur and cloth aside as he bore her back against the wide oak that had borne the brunt of his violent anger only moments before.

Breath rushed from her lungs as he nipped at her skin, her own hands restless through the tangle of his hair, over the fur mantle that adorned his shoulders, welcoming his hunger in spite of the anger that had urged her to her confession in the first place. His own breath was hot against her winter-chilled neck, hands reaching down to drag the folds of her skirt high to her hip, to curl long callused fingers about the softness of her thigh as his hips pressed between her own, igniting to flame the smouldering embers of desire she carried for him always.

"Say it," he growled, the words almost lost as the other hand tugged the laces of her vest loose, pulling leather and linen aside to fill his palm with the tender swell of her breast.

Her throat thickened around a low cry, turning the sound to a gasp in the cool air at the sweep of his thumb over the pebbled ache of her nipple, each touch of his hand, press of his lips, sending a crackling spark to pool in liquid heat at the core of herself denied for far too long. Her fingers tightened in his hair, gripping, pulling, heaving his head back until she could meet his eyes with a growl of her own, her teeth daring to tug at the full pillow of his lower lip.

"I _love_ you," she snarled, half-angry with the need to repeat herself, half-fogged with desire that rippled and surged at the pulse of his body to hers, so close and still too far, separated by layers of leather and wool and fur. "You can throw me to the wolves and I'll still love you, you insufferable -"

The insult was stolen from her by his lips once again, another searing kiss that pulled the moan from her lungs as his hand delved between them, beneath her skirt, seeking, _finding_ the delicate warmth hidden between her thighs. She shuddered in his grasp, pinned between his ravenous heat and the bark at her back, arching into the wicked knowledge of his clever fingers as he toyed with the aching nub of her clit. It had been too long since he'd touched her, kissed her, let her feel this joyful sense of being possessed. Yet he'd never touched her like this; never held her close and teased her to the brink, stealing her breath with kisses that scalded her soul as he played her body like a man born to it. And just at that moment when she might have shattered, fallen willingly into his embrace and forgiven anything in that moment ... he stopped.

His fingers stilled, his kisses halted; he laid his brow to hers and glared into her eyes, daring her to object as she gasped for breath, her fingers flexing against the strong line of his arms as she forced herself to look into the whiskey-bright gaze that haunted her.

"Have I not lost enough today, _mitt hjarta?"_ he asked, his low voice rough with crackling pain. "The Lady has taken my brother, my friends. Do not ask me to part with my heart as well."

Quivering, she felt the weight of those words all the more keenly for the heightened state  he had brought her to. How did he know her so well, to know that in this moment, with ecstasy just out of reach, her mind was sharper, more open to hearing what he truly wished her to hear? But fear was there, too ... fear that she might not be hearing him as he _wanted_ to be heard. Trembling fingers rose from their wrap at his arm to trace the angles of his jaw, his chin, his lips, palm curling to cradle his face as she willingly allowed herself to be locked in his arms. Her voice was barely more than a whisper of breath, afraid to venture the words she needed to hear again.

"Your heart?"

There was no smile to soften the moment, to gentle the ferocity of his gaze as he clung to her. There was no need. This was something that burned as bright as any flame, as strong as any star, a fact that would not be altered come tears or laughter.

"I loved you from the first, _mitt hjarta_ \- my heart," he told her, finally sharing the meaning of that endearment no one had thought to teach her from the oldest of the old tongues. "I love you still. No more of this fear in your heart. You are _mine_ , and I have always been _yours_."

Such words, at such a time, should have sounded trite, meaningless, the words of a man who wanted and would say anything to have, and yet ... she knew those words were his alone. He had never lied to her, never coddled her. He knew himself better than any man she had ever known; knew his place, his purpose in life. And this man - this wonderful, intoxicating lion of a man - had made a place for her in his world, given her a purpose beyond the narrow confines of the life she had been born to. Shame welled up inside her at the unkind thoughts she had harbored of being abandoned. Had he ever shown her the least suggestion that she was no longer wanted? His distance in the weeks after her wounding had hurt, but he had not abandoned her then. He would not abandon her now. The word rose in her throat, given voice on the wings of unfettered adoration as her hands fell to the lacings of his clothes, as her lips brushed his with fervent intent.

"Mine," she whispered to him, feeling the shudder pour through his frame as she finally accepted what she had been afraid to believe. "Mine," whispered once more as she took her turn to steal his breath with kisses of her own, arching from the tree at her back as leather and fur fell away under her hands. _"Mine."_

He gave her no chance to say it again, to touch him and tease the turgid girth that she knew so tenderly. Wide palms fell to her thighs, hoisting her up to hook her legs about his bared hips, pulling hard to free the folds of her skirt from between them, devouring the mouth that had at long last said what he'd known was truth since she'd shared it in the forgetfulness of drink long weeks before. His head dipped, the wet heat of his tongue laving between the swell of her breasts to capture the prickling bud of one erect nipple, teasing, tasting, biting with tender strength until she cried out with restless impatience, her wordless protest a demand not even he could deny. She felt his growl against her breast, dragging her nails through the tousle of his golden curls as he raised his head, breathing her in with lips swollen from her kisses, and _slowly_ set himself inside her, so slow as to set every nerve aflame with anxious need.

He held her there, still as a shadow, the only sound their mingled gasps beneath the rustle of the late winter breeze in the trees. Rory clung to him, her fingers tangled in his hair, the fur on his shoulders, her gaze locked to his in adoring wonder as the anger and pain he had been holding so close was chased away by the sheer pleasure of her in his arms, in his heart, clinging to him as though her life depended on his breath fueling her own. With a gentle thrust, he buried himself deeper, and her head fell back, teeth biting down on her lip hard enough to turn pink to white as a soft groan vibrated from her chest.

"C-cullen -"

Just the sound of his name in the whimpering plea of her voice was enough to put an end to all thought of teasing and softness. A wild grin tugged at his scarred lip, wicked wanting glinting in whiskey-warm eyes as his hands flexed at her thighs, a low growl reverberating from his throat. He drew back just a little, just enough, only to push into her _harder_ , faster, his mouth a ravenous heat against her throat as she cried out, heedless of anyone who might hear her. Again and again, hard and fast, need driving them both as she peppered his temple with open-mouthed kisses, panting for breath with each powerful thrust that kindled the fire inside to a blazing inferno. It wasn't just lust; it wasn't just love; it was raw, primal desire to possess and be possessed, to claim and be claimed, to set aside all thought of fear and doubt and simply _be_ , sharing this heady rush toward completion that demanded to be sated together. Everything became searing white heat, from the scent of oakmoss and elderflower that lingered on his skin, the musty softness of the bear pelt at his shoulders, the scorching sound of his groaning breath at her throat; heat and light and bone-shaking ecstasy combining in a blinding moment of sudden ethereal perfection.

And the slow return to earth, to the wrap of his arms, the sensation of her feet falling to the ground, her body pressed back against the rough bark as he leaned into her, braced above her head on one arm, his other hand palming her hip, reluctant to step away. Breathless and boneless, trading softer kisses as the trembling bliss faded from limbs that felt leaden in the glowing aftermath of a coupling they had not shared for weeks. It was only when he raised his hand to close her shirt and vest, his breath ragged on his tongue, that she recalled the blood on his hands - blood that she wore now, as much a part of his family as the brother he had just bade farewell to the Lady's arms.

"I love you," she whispered to him, her fingers gentle against the bared lines of his chest, slipping down to cover him over once more even as he tilted her chin to taste her mouth all over again. "I was ... I _am_ ... afraid when you grow cold to me."

"You were hurt because of me," he murmured, that hoarse tone in his voice finally sharing that not all his guilt was for the death of his brother. "Had I not taken you to Redhold, had I not run you too fast in the darkness ... Rory, I could have lost you to their treachery. I wanted revenge for the hurt _you_ suffered. I never meant to hurt you in turn. I would sooner tear out my eyes than let you think even for a moment that my heart is not yours."

"It was not your fault," she insisted, her fingertips skimming over his sides as he drew her from her lean and into the warm safety of his arms, the distance that had so clouded her heart gone, if only for these few moments. "None of this is blame you should be carrying, love."

He shuddered, wrapping his arms tight about her, bent close to bury his face into the loose coil of her hair. No tears, not from him, not out here where anyone might see them, but a subtle change in the tension he carried, an understanding that she might well be right, if he could just convince himself of that.

"I miss him."

The words were almost lost, offered in a breath that warmed her skin as his fingers tightened, holding her closer. She leaned into him willingly, letting him squeeze as tightly as he needed to, her hands soft as she stroked his back beneath the fall of his heavy cloak. There was nothing she could say in that moment, no words that could lessen the sting of his loss, nor soften the guilt he felt that his brother's son would grow up without knowing the man that had made him. This loss would change him, she knew; knock a little of his confidence away, temper some of his cockiness with caution. He would struggle with that guilt, with nightmares of that horrific death witnessed firsthand, but she would be there with him. She promised that, in the silence of her heart.

No matter where his grief took him, she would be _there_ , his heart in her hands and hers in his, no longer just a captured bride. Like a flame burning brightly in the depths of the night, she loved her barbarian savage, with his fierce ways and tender heart, thrilling to the secret certainty that he loved her in return. Grief was a part of life, and he would have to endure.

But so long as she had life in her body, he would not endure alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me at [shannaraisles](https://shannaraisles.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! I'm always up for prompts, chatting, random reblogs!


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